


Where I Come To Rest

by Chelle1117



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelle1117/pseuds/Chelle1117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lisa and Dean have made a tidy little life for themselves.  Then Castiel shows up wanting to go back to the way things were before the averted apocalypse.  Dean says he wants nothing to do with any of it.  He's been there, done that  and is over it.  But with Cas' return, will he stay with what he has now?  Or will he give in to what he's missed?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Come To Rest

  
Lisa was reading when he came in. She was always reading lately. Usually, it was _Cosmo_ or _Redbook_ sporting a stick figure cover model and 125 ways to turn him on in bed and leave him begging for more. Sometimes, she had a novel, something from the library with a crinkly plastic dust jacket and suspicious stains on the pages. Twice, he caught her reading a newspaper, but she usually gets the news from TV or the internet. Once, he'd busted her reading some porn novella her best friend had given her on a lark. Remembering _that_ night fondly, he smiled to himself as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the peg by the door.

Today, she sat on the sofa, feet curled under her thighs, elbow propped up on the back cushions, with her fingers twirling a strand of hair. In the other hand, she held a paperback novel from the supermarket. Her lips moved slightly as she read, and every once in a while, they curled into a smile. Dean was about to move past her into the kitchen when he caught sight of the book's cover. The familiar images and typeface pulled him over to her.

Leaning over the arm of the sofa, he planted a kiss on the crown of her head. "Hey," he whispered.

She tilted her face up to him, smiling hello as she kissed him. It was a ritual they'd settled on soon after he'd come to live with her.

His first night there, he'd been quiet, unwilling and unable to talk. She hadn't pressured him, and he'd been grateful to her for that. She went about her nightly routine, settling Ben into bed, locking the doors and windows, finally sitting down on the opposite end of the sofa from him, her legs stretched out so that he could _just_ feel her toes against his thighs. They sat like that, quiet, her mere presence grounding him in the here and now.

Over the course of days, the tension flowed out of his body, and he grew comfortable. He still didn't talk much, and they'd sit quietly together in the darkened living room. Sometimes, the quiet got to be too much for him, and like magic, she'd sit down with a beer or a glass of water, her arm settled behind him over the back of the couch—a solid constant presence. They'd talk about her day, Ben's adventures at camp, whatever gossip she'd been catching up on, anything to break the silence and stop the flow of memories and grief that ripped him up in those moments.

Several weeks later, he'd been able to talk, and she'd listened. She knew a lot of it, and that surprised him. She told him how after the thing with the Changelings she'd done her own bit of research, and from that point on, had followed the signs. She'd kept track of storms and cattle and weird agriculture reports, so she'd figured out a little of what was going on—enough to guess at his and Sam's role in the whole thing.

That had been a relief, to not have to beat around the bush or talk in circles about the way he lost his brother, the way he lost everything. Again, she'd listened, run her fingers through his hair, and let him wrap himself around her in search of warmth and comfort he'd never thought he'd need.

Throughout those weeks, he settled into his new life. As the grief over losing Sam eased and he started talking, he eased into family life. At first it was little things: standing in the kitchen in a t-shirt and boxers with his own coffee cup in the morning, pouring Ben's cereal before he came downstairs, finding his boxers had been tossed in the wash with Lisa's delicates and realizing that it was the right load for them anyway. He even had his own shelf in the refrigerator for the junk food and beer he liked.

Then he had responsibilities. Lisa made him clean the garage, sweep the porch, run the dishwasher and unload it when it was done. He organized the kitchen cabinets so the dish placement made fucking sense. He mowed the lawn, took out the trash, washed the cars, and cleaned the gutters. If a bug got in the house, he killed it—with extreme prejudice, because Lisa was terrified of bugs.

He established his routine, and he liked it. If he searched the corners of the yard shrouded in shadows cast by the setting sun, if he tapped on flickering light fixtures, if he turned up the television to drown out the sound of an old house shifting and settling, then he had damned good reasons for doing so—reasons that had nothing to do with what his life had been.

Eventually, though, the stability wore on his nerves. Something was missing. He needed an occupation, not just waking up and puttering around a house all day. Having nothing to do, nothing to prepare for, left him restless

One afternoon, while he was cleaning out the garage, on a whim, he snatched the tarp off the Impala, ran his palms over the sleek lines of her frame, his fingers catching the scratches in the paint. For a moment, his nerves eased, and an eerie calm settled over him. When he got here, he'd been hard pressed to put his baby in the garage, but he'd done it. He knew then that if he hadn't put her away, out of sight, he'd have been gone in a few days. That wasn't the plan, though. He'd promised Sam he'd make a go at normalcy, and having the Impala outside, calling him out with every gleam of light from her shining paint job, would have undermined his ability to keep that promise.

He opened the driver's side door and got in. He let his fingers wrap around the ridges in the steering wheel. If he'd had the keys with him, he'd have started the car. They were in a drawer in the kitchen, and he knew if he got out to get them, the moment would be over anyway. But for the few minutes he sat there, that restless feeling of missing something was gone. Sighing, he climbed out of the car, and checked the trunk. He'd done his best to keep the temptation out of sight, but he damned sure wasn't going to be left defenseless. Before he closed her up for good, he'd made sure the truck was stocked, the weapons cleaned and ready.

When he saw they were still there, he tapped a finger on the truck's edge, coming to a decision. On the days he cleaned the garage, he'd just pop the trunk and keep up the regimen of weapons cleaning he'd had on the road. The routine of taking the guns apart, cleaning them, putting them back together, of honing the edges of his blades, calmed his nerves.

He started settling down again, laughing more easily, fitting into the family a little more tightly. He figured he could offset the unfamiliarity of normalcy with some of the routine of life on the road. When Lisa wasn't watching, he made up hex bags, and dropped them into the walls of the house. Nothing visible, certainly nothing he'd have to keep an eye on, but he knew they were there. It was enough to keep the edge off. For a while.

When he started salting the doors and windows before he went to bed at night, Lisa confronted him.

"Dean. What the hell are you doing?" She stood at the end of the hall, arms folded over her chest.

He looked down at the salt box in his hand and frowned, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He had no idea what he was doing.

She sighed in exasperation at him. "You need to get out of this house."

He panicked. "What?" He'd been struggling to fit in, to find his niche in Lisa's household, sure. Still, he'd managed to do it and not lose his mind in the process. He'd reached a point where he called this house home, and he wouldn't deny that Lisa and Ben were now his family. He'd settled in well enough that the thought of _not_ being here, of being along again, terrified him.

"Seriously, Dean, before I shoot you myself. You've been restless for the past few weeks. Twitching at shadows, jumping at the normal sounds of a house that's lived in. " she waved a hand at the window he stood in front of. "Salting the windows and doors, for Christ's sake." She lifted her brow at him. "And don't think I don't know what you do in the garage."

"Look, Lisa. I'm sorry," he wanted to apologize, to explain.

Shaking her head she stopped him. "I don't want to hear it. I mean, I'm glad you've kept the weapons in the garage; I'd really prefer if you not expose Ben to that part of you. But really, Dean. If you're that restless, go running, go shoot things, get a job, I don't care. But don't bring your past into mine and Ben's present. We don't deserve it."

"I know you don't." He knew they didn't deserve to be saddled with him. He carried too much baggage, too much damage. "I can't..." His fingers tightened around the box in his hand, crumpling it a little. "I've been this way as long as I can remember. This my life."

"The apocalypse is over, Dean."

He gave her a skeptical smile. There was always one coming around the next second. The apocalypse, he knew, was never over.

"And even if there's another one, there are other hunters. You don't have to be the guy that stops it. Not anymore. " She came closer to him. "You've got an opportunity here, you know. One not many of your kind get; you said so yourself. You deserve this chance. And you owe it to Sam. You've got a chance at a normal life. All you've got to do is _live_ it."

He'd never make her understand. He didn't have the words, and she didn't have the experience. They couldn't even meet halfway. Shaking his head in frustration, he closed the spout on the salt and swiped at the mess he'd made. As the salt abraded his palm, her words registered.

He had to live. For the past few weeks, he'd been trudging along, existing, waiting for the impossible to happen, waiting to be sucked back into hell. He'd been restless and irritable, itching to get back to a life that was obsolete. He froze, stunned at the realization.

She came to him and laid her hand on his arm. "Dean?"

"No. I...you're right."

"About what?"

"I keep...It's been so good here. You've been great. Ben...But lately it hasn't been enough." He stared down at her, wanting her to understand, but not sure how he could make it clear to her. He had to try. "I've been waiting for _my_ life to begin again. Waiting for the shoe to drop and for Sam to come walking through that door. Because he always has before."

"Dean."

"And that's not...It's not my life anymore, is it?" He looked up at her. "I made a promise, Lisa. I swore that if anything happened to him, I'd hightail it back here and make a real life. A normal life with a wife and kid and a job. And yeah, it had appeal. But I had no intention of ever doing it because nothing was going to happen to Sam. Then it did, and I was stuck with this promise. And I've tried."

"You've done a good job, I think," she whispered. "I know how hard this was for you. The adjustment you had to make. But you did it."

He held up the salt box. "If I'm doing such a bang up job adjusting, Lisa, why in the fuck am I doing this again?"

She shook her head. "I don't...I can't answer that for you," she'd said.

He handed the box to her and took a resolute step away from the window. "I made a promise," he said, coming to stand before her. "Sam's gone; that part of my life is over. I can..." For the first time in what felt like years, something inside him broke open. He huffed out a laugh. "I never thought I'd have one, so it never occurred to me to want it, but dammit. I _can_ have this. A normal fuckin' life."

"Yeah. I thought that's why you were here." She smiled at him. "Besides, it's not like you haven't been doing it for months now anyway."

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You should have told me!"

She shook her head. "And miss this epiphany. Not in a million years."

He looked at her for a moment. She had her hair pulled back into a pony tail, her face was scrubbed clean of the make-up she'd worn to work. Her eyes were clear and bright and smiling up at him. He remembered why he'd wanted her that first time, and why he'd dreamed of her when he dreamed of a normal life. Something pulled free inside and him settled into his core. He leaned slowly forward, giving her time to back away if she wanted. "You're evil," he whispered, pushing closer to her.

She met his eyes and smiled softly, whispering, "I promise I'm not," and then pulled him in for a kiss.

She pushed him down the hall, into the bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing along the way.

Another few weeks and they'd grown closer, more intimate. They kissed in the kitchen before either of them had coffee. They snuggled on the sofa while watching television, and when they went to bed, he followed her into her room and held her close. They made love. He kept his eyes open, noticing the differences between them: his scars and her smooth unblemished skin, his bent and broken fingers combing through her hair. When they slept, she curled into the crook of his neck, her breath warm and soft on his skin, his arms tight around her.

Once he finally let go of who he had been, he settled in to who he could be. The Impala stayed covered up, the rock salt stayed in the garage, unopened. He checked his weapons one last time to make sure they were safe, then closed them up and didn't take them out again. Funny thing was, he didn't miss it. His irritability and anxiousness faded, and he eventually found a job working at a local body shop, stripping old cars and fixing motors.

His third day on the job, he'd come home covered in grease and grime, his knuckles busted and bleeding. Normally, he'd take her in his arms and plant a juicy wet kiss on her mouth, her laughing the whole time. But that day, given his filthy condition, he bent over the back of the sofa and kissed her head.

"What's that for?" she asked him.

"I'm a mess, don't want to get it on ya."

"Screw that. Come here." She'd turned her head up, wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

Over the months, that welcome home kiss may have tamed, but the ritual remained the same. It was one of the perks of this normal life that Dean looked forward to everyday.

"Mmm, sweet," he said pulling away from her and pointing at the book in her hands. "Whatchya reading?"

She held the novel up for him to look at. "Dunno. Something new at the grocery story. It was the strangest thing. I was standing in the book and magazine aisle, trying to decide between Cosmo or Redbook, and this guy said I should read this one. Said the author had stopped publishing a while ago, but this was new. I thumbed through it, and," she looked up at him. "It was about you. Or a character with your name doing your job."

Hoping it wasn't what he was thinking, Dean took the book from her and read the cover. _Signal Fire_ by Carver Edlund. He couldn't believe it. He and Sam had made it crystal clear that the books about them were done. And Chuck, being the good friend he was, had agreed not to publish his 'visions' of Sam and Dean's adventures under his pseudonym. When Chuck disappeared after the last big fight, Dean thought he'd never see the name _Carver Edlund_ again. Seeing it then made the bottom drop out of his stomach, but he handed it back to her with a tepid smile. "The author liked me."

"You know this guy?"

"We met on a job a while ago." He went to bar and poured a drink.

"And he just what? Used you as inspiration for his character?"

"I guess. I mean, it's no big deal."

"Hmm." She laid the book down on the couch and turned to face him fully. "You know, though, the guy who showed it to me? It's weird. I distinctly remember what he said, and I know I must have looked at him while he talked to me, but I can't remember his face."

"Oh, yeah?" He lifted his glass in a silent query.

"No, I'm good," she said. Then, "I...there are impressions. Messy hair. Soft smile. Chapped lips. A tie." She frowned. "But nothing that could really describe him. Don't you think that's weird?"

He choked on a swallow of his drink. In another life, he'd have given his excuses and gone to find Castiel. Coughing to clear his throat, he waved off her concern. "Nah. You had other things on your mind. Why would you remember some random dude in the grocery store?"

He felt her staring at him and finally turned to meet her gaze.

She squinted at him, skeptical, but he held her gaze, his breath tight in his chest as he waited her out. After a beat, she sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I mean, if you thought it was anything, you'd have been out of here like a shot."

He swallowed again, his relief at her dropping the subject tangible. "Hm." He finished his drink with a quick swallow, wincing at the burn in his chest. "I'm gonna shower."

She smiled up at him. "Okay. I've got chili on the stove. Should be ready in a bit."

"Hot?"

"Yeah. I made a little pot for myself. I know how you and Ben like it."

Dean laughed. "You sure he's not mine?" he tossed over his shoulder as he turned down the hallway. He heard Lisa chuckle and turned to see her shake her head and pick up the book again to start reading.

*****

The water ran hot and steamy from the shower head, and Dean stepped beneath it, hissing as it hit his skin. He bent his head under the stream and let the water pound the aches out of his shoulders. Another book could only mean that the life he'd finally let go wasn't actually over at all.

Closing his eyes, he sobbed out a breath. Close to a year he'd been out of the game, building a life for himself that didn't involve rock salt, iron, and bruises so deep they never healed properly. The worst injury he got these days was bloody knuckles from stripping rusted lug nuts off old wheels.

He flexed his fingers, listening to the joints pop.

The thought of going back to that existence—of getting in the Impala and driving to a place where he didn't belong, of fighting and bleeding and hurting all over again—had him gasping for breath. He didn't want it, didn't want to leave Lisa and Ben.

He'd finally settled in, and dammit, he was going to keep _this_ home, _this_ family. Fate, God, or whatever the hell else was in control had taken everything from him. _If_ he had to go, whatever fates were working that angle would have to drag him kicking, screaming and brandishing weapons back into it. He wasn't just falling into it again. No way in hell.

Resolved, he straightened himself under the stream of water and scrubbed the day's grime off his skin before heading back down to his family and dinner.

*****

"Well, the boy is tucked in," Dean said, leaning arms crossed against the doorway of their bedroom.

Lisa grinned up at him from where she was reclined on the bed, reading. "You look like an accomplished man."

"You have no idea." He started across the room shaking his head.

"Oh, I think I do," she said laughing.

"I never realized 11 year olds were so hard to put to bed." He stripped off his shirt and pants, and climbed into the bed. Scooting close to her, he kissed her shoulder and slid an arm over her waist.

She snorted. "You should have been around when he was two. And three. Oh, yeah, and four."

Sighing he turned serious. "I would have been. If I'd known."

She turned back to her book, the smile sliding from her face. "He's _not_ yours, Dean."

"Lisa."

"What?" she didn't look at him.

"It was _one night_. And eight and a half years later, you still remembered my name."

"I have a good memory." The hiss of a page turning.

"What's Ben's father's name?"

She didn't answer.

"He's mine, isn't he?"

Her lips pursed, but she still didn't answer.

"Dammit, Lisa, put the fucking book down and talk to me!"

Huffing, she laid the book in her lap and glared at him. "Can we not do this? Like, ever?"

"I had a right to know."

She rolled her eyes. "No. No, you didn't. We had a one night stand, Dean. You left the next morning without so much as a thank you. Couldn't wait to get the hell out my apartment, out of town. I knew, then, telling you was the wrong thing to do. And how exactly was I supposed to tell you? You didn't even leave a number."

"I had to go. My dad-"

"Yeah. Your dad. And your brother. I may not have had a clue at the time, but when you showed up again two years ago, I figured it out. And you were so young."

"So were you."

She nodded. "True."

"I'd have helped you. If I'd known."

"You had other...obligations. It was obvious in everything you said and did." She slid down into the bed, brushed her hand down his cheek to cup his neck and hold him still. "I'm glad you're here now. I really am. But then? I didn't need or want your help. And be honest, Dean. You wouldn't have wanted to give it."

He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers. "Lisa. All I ever wanted was to protect my family; it's the only thing I had. It's not _obligation_ or duty or anything as simple as that. Family is..." He shrugged. "It's family." Kissing her palm, he whispered into it. " _If_ I'd known I had one away from hunting, I'd have _gladly_ done everything I could to protect them."

She sighed. "Okay." Then, after a beat of silence. "Ben is yours."

He chuckled. "I know. It's kind of hard to miss." He kissed her temple, feeling the weight of responsibility settle like a blanket over him. He had a son. Hell, a family. He smiled into her hair, liking the idea.

She pulled away to scan his face. "I knew you were grinning."

"I'm a dad," he whispered, awed.

"You're such a guy," she said, a little breath of laughter following the statement.

"Shut up," he teased, and kissed her lightly.

Then they lay quiet for a while, breathing each other's air, sharing kisses.

He shifted his hand down to hold her hip, and his fingers brushed over the edge of the book she was reading. He picked it up and scanned the cover, thinking to see the artist's versions of himself and Sam. Instead, it was just Dean and the Impala, the black shadow of angel wings, and the watery image of blue eyes superimposed over everything.

He frowned. "What's this about, anyway?"

She took it and scanned the back cover then flipped through the pages. "I'm not too far into it, but there's this angel, who apparently knows Dean somehow, and he _was_ in charge of fixing Heaven. I haven't gotten to why yet. But apparently, he's been cast out again and is trapped on Earth. He needs Dean to help get him back into heaven."

"Oh. What's Dean gonna do?"

"Don't know. Haven't gotten that far yet. So far, it's been Castiel's story, and he hasn't met up with Dean yet. Castiel is the angel." She laughed a little. "Castiel's also mentioned Sam a couple of times too. What, did you and Sam both make an impression on this guy?"

Dean pulled a face. "Sort of."

"Oh. I get it. You didn't just meet him on a job, he was the job?"

Dean stretched out, settling into the bed more fully. "Something like that."

"Well. I think it's pretty great that he made you both characters in his book. Especially since Sam's..." She stopped and faced him, apology written all over her face. "I'm sorry."

Dean brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, the shook his head. "'S okay."

She watched him for a moment, silent. "So," she said. "Sleep?"

Dean settled in close to her, pulling her tight against him. "Yeah."

They fell silent again, and she reached up to turn off the lamp, shrouding the room in the blue black color of night.

After a while, her breathing evened out, and she went limp in his arms. He shifted away from her carefully, rolling onto his back. He rested his head on his crossed fingers and stared at the ceiling.

*****

A day went by, then seven. After two weeks, Dean forgot all about Lisa's book and Castiel. He figured the book had been written for the money and wasn't one of Chuck's 'Winchester prophesies.' For all he knew someone else had assumed the Carver Edlund pseudonym, because the last Dean had heard, the prophet who had chronicled his and Sam's adventures was no longer around. When the apocalypse had ended, Chuck was gone.

When Castiel never showed up, Dean put the book, Chuck and his pseudonym, and thoughts of wayward angels out of his mind and forged on.

He should have remembered that his life doesn't work that way.

He was shoulders deep in the engine of old man Woodham's Plymouth when the air around him rustled with a distinct and nearly forgotten sound.

He sighed and backed out of the engine compartment, hoping it was just a figment of his imagination; that it was anything _but_ what he knew it to be. Taking a steadying breath, he wiped his hands on the dirty grease rag stuck in his pocket and made to turn when that voice stopped him.

"Hello, Dean."

He swallowed and tucked the rag back into his pocket. Reaching up, he pulled the Plymouth's hood closed, then slowly turned around.

At the sight before him, he felt the gut punch of memories he'd thought banished flood through him. Flashes of blood and chains, of blades, of sparks and lightning raced through his thoughts. The echo of laughter and power, the rustle of feathers as wings settled. A nanosecond of an exploding body, the gut wrenching grief at losing Cas and Bobby, then the feeling of cool fingertips on his brow soothing away the wounds and pain from an epic battle with Satan in his brother's body. The weight of someone else's conviction and faith in him. The things he'd hated and loved about having Castiel at his side.

He couldn't breathe for a moment.

To cover the lapse, he twisted his mouth into some semblance of a smile. "Cas," he said, voice low. "See you're still making surprise visits." His eyes drifted involuntarily over Cas' compact frame. "And wearing the same suit. 'S good to know some things don't change."

"It is good to see you, Dean."

Dean chuckled. "Miss me, did ya?" he teased, still trying to cover his initial reaction. He pulled the rag back out of his pocket, to give his hands something to do besides shake.

"Yes," Cas responded with a frustrating economy.

Dean froze, fingers clenched in the dirty material, and stared at Castiel.

Cas graced him with one of his very rare smiles.

Unreasonably piqued at both the smile and the taciturn response, Dean unclenched then crossed his arms. "Well," he said, "I guess it has been a while."

Castiel tilted his head, frowning slightly. "You're angry."

"No," Dean said, letting his head fall back in weary exasperation. "I'm not angry. Just wondering what you want."

Nodding Cas said, "It is strange for me, Dean. For millennia, I never knew want. Now I know nothing but." Then he pinned Dean with a stare. "I'm afraid I _want_ several different things. You're going to have to narrow it down a bit."

"Jesus, Cas," Dean snapped, and tossed the dirty rag on the hood of the car behind him. He'd never heard such an attitude of entitlement from Cas. Sure, from Anna and Uriel, and heaven knows, the entitlement was part and parcel of who Zachariah was, but it was never a part of Cas' make up. Dean hated hearing it now. "What do you want with me? Why are you even here?"

"Ah." Cas looked around the garage, finally settling on Dean with an all too knowing gaze. "Your tone says you already know."

"I caught Lisa reading Chuck's latest masterpiece." Dean shrugged then headed for the shop's office. Castiel followed quietly behind him. "You're in it. Looking for me." He held the door open, and ushered Cas into the tiny air-conditioned room that seemed to shrink even further with his presence.

Dean pointed at one of the chairs lined up against the wall. The vinyl seat was split and the metal legs rusted, but it was sturdy enough. Dean leaned against the desk. "So? What's up?" Dean asked. "Heaven not all it was cracked up to be?"

"I don't know what that means."

"Just wondering how the battle's going up there. Last I knew, God was gone, and you were dealing with some pretty pissed off Angels." He shot Cas a perverse grin. "How's that working out for you?'

Castiel's stare was baleful. "How are things for you without Sam?"

Dean swallowed, assaulted by the painful accuracy of the question. "You know what, Cas? Screw you."

Cas gave him a wry, satisfied smile. "Perhaps, that should have been my answer as well."

"Maybe it should have." Dean dry scrubbed his face and gave a brief, mirthless chuckle. "We're a pair, huh?"

"We were, at one time," Cas observed. "I've since been told it made me weak."

"What? Me?"

"Being here," Cas explained, "with you and Sam. Sympathizing with mortals." Castiel turned to stare at him. "Becoming friends with you."

"Ah, hell. That's bull, Cas. You. Me. Bobby. Sam. We were all screwed dry by the architects of the apocalypse. You and me? We got chewed up and spit out by Heaven and its hosts more times than I even want to count. It doesn't make us weak—not by a long shot. Maybe it doesn't cut you out for being Alpha dog to a bunch of junkless wonders, but even God said 'to hell with that.'"

"Do not talk about my family that way, Dean."

"Oh, come on, Cas. Given half the chance and a little distance, you'd say the same things."

"Because I happen to be one of them, yes. Hearing you say it...it reeks of blasphemy." Castiel frowned. "Can you imagine a flea disparaging humanity?"

"But I'm not a flea, Cas," Dean countered, pointing at him. "I've been there and come up against the best Heaven had to offer. I've seen the worst Hell had in store, too. I'm entitled to an opinion, what with me and Sammy killing ourselves over and over again to save this God forsaken planet and _their_ asses. So keep your righteous indignation to yourself."

"I will concede that." Cas smiled again. "As for righteous indignation? Occupational hazard."

Dean huffed out a laugh, surprised at the capitulation. "I guess so." They were quiet for a while, looking each other over.

Cas looked the same. The same suit and tie, askew slightly, as though he felt more than a little choked by the vessel he wore, and needed the extra room at his collar to breathe. His hair was still a mess of close-cropped waves that seemed to have their own idea of what order was. He still had that painful pink slash of a mouth that always made Dean want to find the nearest tube of chap stick and hand it to him. And the ethereal light of casual power still shone from his eyes.

Cas had always worn his power with an air of duty, like a drone in Heaven's army. He had abilities that were simply a part of him and necessary to his task. He tucked them away, like a pistol in the back of his waist, or a rock salt loaded shotgun in the trunk. Dean had recognized the familiarity of practicality in the way Cas carried his power. Now, however, there was a difference in that carriage.

Cas was still casual, but the air of duty was gone. Cas was no longer the commanded, but the commander. That change alone made him more menacing. Seeing Cas now, observing the changes which had been wrought in him, Dean was glad he and Cas managed to forge a friendship in the two years they worked together. He could only hope Cas still felt the same way.

Because Dean had changed as well. Sometimes, he felt like he'd changed too much. Gone were the sharp angles and leanness honed by years of hyper-vigilance and constant running. He'd settled down into a life he'd never thought he'd have, and his body had eased into its natural condition. He was soft around the edges—like his father—solid and strong, but comfortable. He laughed often enough that lines had settled into his face. When he looked in the mirror, he no longer saw the gaunt face of someone hunted and running. Instead, his saw that of a lover, a father, a man comfortable in his life.

"This life suits you," Cas said, his raspy voice breaking the silence.

Dean startled. "You reading my mind, Cas?"

"Just what comes across the strongest."

"Well, quit."

"You project," he stated. "Also, I was not being critical. I believe you could make any life suit you. You are curiously adaptable for a human being, Dean."

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Comes from a life lived on the fly, I guess."

"Perhaps. Or maybe it's just you. Sam could never adjust to change the way you do."

Dean sighed, feeling his face heat with a betraying rush of blood. He stared at the ground, finding the scuffed toe of his boots interesting for the first time in a long time. "Well. I... I don't know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything, Dean. I am merely making an observation."

"You know," looked at Cas from the corner of his eye, "I hate your observations."

"You always did."

Dean cut him a sideways glare. "Then stop making them."

Cas chuckled, looking away.

"Look, Cas, it's getting time for me to go. Lisa's probably got dinner waiting," Dean said, looking out the window, hoping Cas would take the hint and just go. Dean just wanted to go home, curl up with Lisa on the sofa and watch the shows they'd set to record last night, and forget that Cas had even shown up. When he looked back, Cas met his gaze with a steady look. Dean shook his head.

"I'd like to meet your new family," Cas said, voice quiet. He looked curious, nothing more, but Dean knew from the years he spent working with Cas that the serene façade hid so much of what was going on underneath.

Sighing, Dean looked him over, knowing there would be no going back if he let Cas get even a toehold in his life. He'd have to do the best he could to maintain this new normalcy. Finally, feeling like everything he'd worked so hard for was about to fall apart but seeing no way around it, Dean nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Heading out of the office, he shrugged into his jacket and pulled the keys out of his pocket. He held the door open for Cas and pointed left. "Truck's this way."

*****

The ride back to the house was quiet, neither Dean nor Castiel having much to say, and neither of them any good at small talk—Dean because small talk was for pussies, and Castiel because, well, he just didn't talk unless he had something monumental to say. Occasionally, Dean glanced over at his passenger, and wondered again what Cas was doing back on Earth, and why the hell he hadn't said anything about his reasons, but he'd shrug, and look back at the road, figuring Cas would come around to talking in his own time.

They got to the house and climbed out of the truck, Dean grabbing a lunch box and tool kit out of the tuck bed and nodding toward the porch. "I'm a little late. Bet Lisa's already got dinner ready. Never thought I'd be eating at a table that was mine and having food that wasn't wrapped up in tin foil and heated in some dingy microwave at some dirty convenient store on the way to nowheresville, but here I am."

"You like it."

Dean smiled, wistful, and rested against the truck's fender. "Yeah. I really I do. Didn't think I would. It was the last thing I wanted, coming here. But I promised Sam. Then, you probably knew that."

Cas frowned at him, seemed to be preparing a statement. "I did. I also knew it would be difficult. Without Sam, I mean. But you seem to have made a life here."

Dean looked him in the eye. "Yeah," he said. "I have."

There was another beat of silence. "I envy you."

Dean snorted. "Right."

"You're surprised?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

"You still don't feel yourself worthy."

Dean laughed, startled. "That's not why I'm surprised. I mean, I know this is the good life. That people want this. I get that. Just...you?" He shook his head. "I ain't buying it. You've got all of Heaven and its host of angels. Why would you envy some greasy mechanic, living with an ex-one night stand, raising a kid he never knew he had?"

Cas shrugged, shooting Dean a quick wry smile. "How did you put it? Heaven isn't all it's....cracked up to be."

"Ah," Dean said and started toward the house. "Nothing ever is, I guess."

Cas nodded once and followed behind him.

Lisa had the stereo playing some alternative rock, and Dean winced as he walked in the door. "I've tried to get her to listen to real music, but she insists on this crap."

Castiel listened for a moment. "I can understand her choice."

Dean stared at him. "Oh, great. Not you, too."

"Are you picking on my music choices again, Dean Winchester?" Lisa called from the kitchen. "I can hear you judging all the way in here."

"Come on," Dean said, nodding toward the kitchen. "I'll introduce you."

Lisa met him at the kitchen entrance. She leaned against the wall, smiling. "You should know by now, you're not going to change my tastes, Dean." Her eyes flickered over the man standing behind him, but she didn't say anything. Dean slid his hand over her cheek, pulling her in for a brief kiss.

"I know. Still sucks comin' home to it," he replied.

"Suck it up, baby," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Ben's staying the night with a friend. I thought we could have a night to ourselves." She glanced over his shoulder. "You must have had different thoughts." She lifted a brow then pointed to Cas. "Who's your friend?"

"Damn. Sorry," Dean said, wincing. He debated introducing him as Castiel, but remembered she'd been reading that damned book and how she'd asked too many questions when she first brought it home. He knew if he mentioned Cas' real name, he'd be opening the equivalent of a Pandora's box on his life. He wasn't willing to risk it. "He's a...well, I guess you could say he's a colleague of mine and Sam's," he hedged.

That surprised her. "You're a hunter?" she asked Cas.

Castiel shook his head. "Not exactly."

"Well, he's not anymore," Dean muttered. "Jimmy," he said, eyebrows high in a silent demand for Cas to follow his lead on this. "I'd like you to meet Lisa. Lisa, this is Jimmy."

"It's lovely to meet you, Lisa." Cas smiled endearingly, clearly an expression new to him, because it creeped Dean out, and Dean's known him for nearly three years.

"You, too," Lisa replied, blinking. "Ah, will you be staying for dinner?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Okay," she said, smiling. "I'll set another place." She headed back into the kitchen.

Cas headed over to the large window at the back of the living room. Dean sat down on the sofa, silent and watchful as Cas strolled through the setting of his new life. A feeling of uneasiness settled in the pit of his stomach as Cas ran his fingers along the picture frames—pictures of Dean and Ben in the back yard playing catch, of Dean and Lisa laughing into the camera, of Lisa and Ben huddled together over the kitchen table, finger-painting.

If Dean's life were a spectrum, Cas would be on the opposite end from Lisa and Ben, and having the two ends meet was downright unsettling. Realizing that, Dean was again struck by the need to know why Cas was suddenly in his life again.

"Cas." Dean waited until Cas turned and faced him. "Why _are_ you here?" he asked. At Cas' confused frown, Dean waved a hand at him. "And before you go all literal, I mean why you are back on Earth. Specifically, this time, please?"

Cas rolled his head on his shoulders in an age old gesture of fatigue. "I thought," he started quietly, "I could be of use."

"For what? There's nothing going on."

"Not here," Cas said, turning to him briefly, then back to stare out into the evening light. "In Heaven. With my Father gone, and him having brought me back, I figured He wanted me to...I don't know...restore order in Heaven. I know he'd be disappointed that his home was in chaos. But I am..." Dean watched his face crunch up in confusion. "I am less than effective at my chosen duty," he finally finished.

"So you came here? Why didn't you just go AWOL? I mean, if it's good enough for the head cheese himself?"

This time, Cas turned and smiled at him. Dean didn't think he was going to like the answer. "I didn't just come to Earth; I came to you."

Dean swallowed, sure he'd misheard. "I'm sorry, what? Why me?"

"I missed you."

"Whoa." Dean shook his head. Then he remembered the conversation in the shop's office. He eyed Cas. "You said that before. Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Just then, Lisa said from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready guys," and stepped into the living room. She must have sensed the tension, because she paused, frowning, then asked, "Jimmy, are you staying?"

Cas looked at Dean, who stared back at him. Then he answered, "Yes," and stepped softly toward the dining room.

Dean knew Cas had answered both Lisa's question and his own.

"Fuck."

"Dean?" Lisa asked, coming over to him. "You okay?" She slid her arms around his waist and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "You look like you seen a ghost. And considering what you do— _did_ —for so long, that's saying something."

"Hmm?" he turned to her, then shook his head. "Yeah," he said, enclosing her in a brief hug. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just..." he sighed. "Memories, I guess. You know, seeing Ca- uh, Jimmy again. Makes me think of...before."

"You mean with Sam."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, knowing he'd probably choke on the lie.

She rubbed his back. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I know you miss him."

Swallowing and turning to kiss her hair, Dean said, "Yeah. I'll be okay, though."

She gave him a soft smile. "I know. You always are." Letting him go, she turned back to the dining room. "I'm waiting for what happens when you aren't." She took his hand. "Come on," she said, tugging him toward the table. "Let's eat."

*****

The house was quiet but for the hiss of rain falling against the windows, the darkness whole and thick. Unable to sleep, Dean lay in bed with Lisa snuggled tight against him. Nearly ten months had passed since he'd felt so restless. When he'd first arrived, the nightmares had kept him awake. Slow motion screen-captures of Sam and Adam falling into the pit, their bodies in sharp relief against the pitch blackness of hell. Over the course of months, the nightmares had receded, and he'd established a relatively normal sleep pattern. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd lain awake, restless and unable to sleep.

This time, though, it wasn't nightmares of hell, an apocalypse, or seeing his brothers fall into hell.

He sighed.

No. This time, his restlessness was a simple matter of two worlds colliding that should never have met.

"Dammit."

Pulling the covers aside, and gently sliding out of Lisa's sleep-loosened grip, Dean got up. When she made a restless sound, her face frowning in sleep, he leaned over and kissed her temple. "'S okay. Just restless. Go back to sleep," he whispered and kissed her again. She mumbled something unintelligible then settled back into sleep. He tucked the covers over her, watching the shadows of the rain snake over her face. He took a moment to be grateful for her and Ben and this chance he had. Sighing, he snatched his shirt from the foot of the bed and tugged it over his head as he headed for the kitchen.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and sat at the island. "All right, Cas," he said. "I'm up."

A silent rush of wind ruffled his hair.

"Why are you still awake?" Castiel asked from behind him.

Dean turned to face him and leaned back against the island's edge. "Tell me what's going on, Cas. Why'd you come?"

"You just called me."

"No. Why have you come back down here after all these months? You say it's because you missed me, but I ain't buying it. We made it to friends, I'll grant that. But we weren't close enough for you to miss me so much you'd give up heaven."

"Are you sure?" Cas interrupted, and Dean went silent.

Confronted with the overt question, he could only blink. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he had missed Cas. Had missed the solid, larger than life presence that Cas carried with him wherever he went. He'd missed the easy teasing rapport they'd developed in the months before the end of everything. In those last days, Cas had been a constant fixture, and when the end came, there'd been a Cas shaped hole in Dean's life that was almost as large as the one left by Sam.

Dean took a sip of water. "Okay. I'll accept the possibility that what you say is true. I may even go so far as to say I missed you, too."

"Thank you," Cas rolled his eyes.

"But did you even consider _me_ at all before you came back?" Dean set his bottle on the island, several drops flying out of the mouth and sprinkling over his hand at the force. "I'm _happy_ here, Cas. Finally. It took me nearly forever, but I got there. I thought I'd never stop dreaming about Sam and the devil and god and you. I thought I was going crazy, that I was lying to myself thinking I could do this, that I could keep this one fuckin' promise. But I did it. It took some time and a lot of patience, but I built a life here, Cas." He shook his head. "You coming here...I feel like you're going to tear my life apart, and you've been here less than a day."

"While I am glad that you have found a place to call home - "

"Fuck you. I _had_ a home. And if it hadn't been for your _family_ , I'd still have it!"

"Dean-" Castiel said.

Dean slashed a hand through the air. "No, we didn't have a house, and we were always moving, and it seemed like all we did was fight, but Sam, our job, my fucking car? That was my home. This is...This is me keeping my word, and trying to live the life that Sam thought I wanted. I'm doing it. It's hard and I know I'm screwing up, but somehow, it's okay. Better than okay! And you show up—saying you missed me, for fuck's sake—screwing with my head. Well, I don't care that you missed me. I just want to know _why the hell you're back_!"

Cas took a deep breath and leveled an open look on Dean. "I can't answer that."

"Horseshit."

"What do you want to hear, Dean?" Cas asked, head tilted in confusion. "I never understood what you wanted from me."

Dean boggled at him. "What I wanted from you? Excuse me? I never wanted anything from you. Except maybe a little more help fighting the apocalypse. Maybe a clue about how to save my brother. But you came to me, Cas. You're the one who gripped me tight and pulled me from perdition. Remember?" Dean gave a mirthless laugh. "Or is that what you tell all the boys?"

Castiel pointed. "That! That right there. What _is_ that?"

Shaking his head, Dean asked, "What?"

"I watched you. I listened to you. _You_ , Dean. You curl your mouth in what should be a smile and say things in that flippant tone. I realized it was your way of initiating sex, because it was how you lured women to you. But then, you started using that tone with me."

Dean felt the blood leech from his face. He'd never even considered that Cas had picked up on the way Dean flirted. Or that he'd used it on Cas.

"I didn't know what to do about it so I ignored it. But I became...accustomed to you, to Sam. To being here. But mostly, to you." Cas said. "When Sam trapped Lucifer and I was brought back, I thought I had another purpose. But being home, working to repair the damage done by my brothers' fighting was difficult." He frowned. "No. It was...unsatisfying. At first, I could not fathom why. I should have been content with the responsibility, but I wasn't. Something was missing."

Dean shook his head, afraid of what Cas would say. "Don't." The world he inhabited now, the life he'd built for himself, would shatter around him if Cas continued the way Dean thought he would.

"I didn't know at first. I thought, perhaps, god's continued absence was the problem. So I stayed, continued to do what I thought He wanted me to do. But nothing worked. The angels are still plotting against each other, and there is nothing I can do about that. In the midst of discovering my own futility there, I had this thought, fleeting and infinitesimal, about how different it would have been had you been with me."

"Cas, please." Dean stared down at the floor, renewing with every exhaled breath his promise to Sam, to himself, that he was going to live this normal life. He didn't need or want his past life. Not with Cas. Not without Sam.

"Then I knew." Looking up at Dean, Cas said, "They can have it. I don't want it anymore. I don't want the battles. I don't want the empty existence of blind faith. I have the luxury of knowledge of God, but He's not there. Why should I be? And I..." He smiled. "Yes. I missed _this_. I missed you."

Dean crossed his arms, turning away. "Cas, I can't be the reason you give up Heaven."

Cas sighed, frustration evident. "Will there ever be a time when you do _not_ think the worst of yourself?"

Shrugging, Dean said, "Probably not."

"You are a most frustrating creature, Dean Winchester," Cas complained.

"So why come back, if I'm so frustrating for you."

"Because having experienced you, a life without you pales in comparison. You fight and you work, and you push others to do the same. Through sheer obstinacy, you make the world turn in your favor. I can and did do more to honor God's plan for humanity with you and Sam than I ever could do in Heaven."

"Sam's not here, Cas. He's gone." Dean sighed. "And he's not coming back." And there was no way in hell Dean was giving up what he had now for a life of hunting without Sam to make their existence have some semblance of home. Even if his heart was racing at the thought of being back on the road. With Castiel.

"Dean."

"No. I can't." Dean turned back to him. "That life is over, Cas. I can't go back to it. Even if I _wanted_ to," and he did. He was terrified that if it had been Sam asking, instead of Castiel, he'd pack his bags and be out the door. Leaving Lisa behind. Leaving Ben. He'd leave _his son_ behind if Sam were the one asking, and he hated that about himself. But he wouldn't do it for Cas. "I couldn't. I'm just...I..." He shook his head. "No."

They stared at each other, silent, until Dean couldn't take it anymore. He turned to go. "I'm going to back to bed."

A sigh, then a silent rush of wind and when Dean looked back, Castiel was gone.

"Jesus."

*****

Dean hoped, with Cas' disappearance, that things would go back to what had become normal for him. On the surface, they did. He picked Ben up from school; they played ball in the back yard, wrestled after dinner, and Ben trounced him thoroughly at _Grand Theft Auto_. Which Dean was perfectly fine with, because he easily kicked Ben's ass at any first person shooter games, and _Call of Duty_ was his favorite anyway.

He and Lisa still slept together, still kissed in the evenings, made out to sappy romantic comedies, and she still snuggled up to him when Ben insisted on watching the latest horror film in the dark.

But since Cas left, there were Saturdays when all Dean could think about was pulling the tarp off the Impala, tuning up the engine and taking her out for a spin. He'd swept the garage, and a bag of rock salt fell over and spilled some of its contents onto the floor, and he'd thought, "Dammit, that's a waste." One night, while locking up after Ben and Lisa had headed off to bed, he'd pulled the poker from its stand on the hearth and had been disappointed that it was tempered steel instead of iron. "Useless," he'd muttered and shoved it back into its slot, making a mental note to hit the hardware store for a set of iron fireplace tools.

He tried to hide his restlessness from Lisa, figuring it had been brought on by Cas' visit and would ease up shortly. But the days stretched into weeks, and the feeling wouldn't go away. More and more, he found himself thinking about leaving.

He let himself dwell on the rush of exhilaration that came after roasting some evil son of a bitch and saving another family. His body ached for the hum of the steel radials on asphalt and the sound of classic rock blasting from tinny speakers. If, in his mind, the man riding in the passenger seat had short brown hair instead of long, if his eyes were blue instead of the Winchester green, he didn't question it.

Eventually, he reached a point at which he knew that, despite his growing feelings for Lisa and Ben, the reason he was staying was because of the promise he made to Sam.

Dean thought he'd done a decent enough job hiding the truth from Lisa. Not that he wanted to lie to her, he didn't. He just didn't know how to tell her the truth. Then, one night about three weeks after Cas' visit, Lisa confronted him. "You miss him."

Dean, who'd been settling his arm over her shoulder, startled. "Who?"

"Jimmy."

"Jimmy?" he asked, confused.

"Your friend. The weird guy with the blue eyes and messy accountant hair?"

"Oh." Dean swallowed. "Why d'you say that?" He shifted, and she pulled away from him, a questioning look on her face.

"You've been different since he was here."

He pulled a face. "No," he lied.

He should have known better than to try with her. Since he'd arrived, Lisa had been able to pull the truth from him. Sometimes, he resented her for it.

"Dean. You don't sleep. If you're not at work, you're staring out at the garage. You're tense, irritable. You yelled at Ben last week. I let it slide, because I know you're going through something pretty big, and so does he. But it's only gotten worse. It's like you're waiting for something." She crossed her arms and settled back against the arm of the sofa. "You're even different when we're together."

"Lisa." Dean glanced at her. "I don't,"

"I get it. I mean, Jimmy being here brought back some memories. And that's okay, but I wish you'd talk to me about it."

He huffed, a self-deprecating smile sliding across his face. "Well, that's not something I'm good at."

"I know that," she said. "Doesn't make me want it any less." She put her hand on his thigh. "I hate to do this to you, knowing how you are about these kinds of moments, but I want you to know something."

"Yeah?"

"Having you here, even knowing you're only here because of a promise, it's been...It's been really good. I was, Ben and I, we were getting along fine. It was hard, but we were getting by. Then you showed up." She ran a hand through his hair, fingers trailing down around the shell of his ear. "And, yeah, it was hard at first. You were dealing with some pretty intense emotions and grieving throughout the process. But you fit into our lives. Into my life. Ben," she smiled. "Ben loves you; you have to know that."

He nodded once, silent, waiting for her to continue.

"So do I."

He really had never expected to hear that, and it made him hate himself a little bit more for his feelings the last few weeks. "Lisa," he whispered, his voice cracking.

She pulled away from him again. "I thought, before Jimmy showed up, that you were starting to love us. Or at least getting used to being here with us. But now? Now, I'm not so sure."

"I was. I mean," he said, "I never thought to have this, you know? But I do, and it's great, Lisa. You and Ben have been the best things that have _ever_ happened to me."

She propped her elbow on the back of the couch to rest her head on her knuckles. "Considering your life, I can believe that."

"So you gotta know you're enough."

"You say that, and you look like you mean it, Dean."

"I do." He winced, knowing he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as her.

"But there's the last few weeks," she pointed out. "You haven't been _here_."

Dean sighed. "I know. But if anyone could make me stay it would be you and Ben."

She tilted her head at him. "I know you believe that, but I'm..." she shook her head. "No. Never mind." She gave him a knowing smile. "Neither Ben nor I want to make you stay. We want you to _want_ to stay." She fell silent, watching him. He couldn't meet her eyes. Finally, she said, "You should call your friend again. We should have dinner."

Shaking his head, Dean countered, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Lots of reasons."

"Name one."

Dean swallowed. "His name's not Jimmy."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Okay. So what is his name?"

Dean lifted the lid on Pandora's Box. "Castiel."

*****

The next night, Dean stood on the porch, leaning against the rail. The night air was crisp against his skin. Late summer giving way to fall made for cooler evenings. Lisa sat inside, sipping a tumbler of whiskey. Ben had gone to bed an hour earlier. Dean took a long swallow from the bottle in his hand.

Looking up at the purple sky, he counted what stars he could see. The memory of another clear night flooded through his mind. The stars that night had blanketed the sky, made it almost white with pinpoints of light, and he couldn't help make the comparison. Looking up now, too many of the starts he remembered seeing from before were obscured by ambient light from the town. Another perfect moment ruined by a reality. He sighed.

"Cas."

He closed his eyes against the rush of wind on his face.

"Dean."

"I lied," Dean said.

"About what?"

"If Sam were alive, if he were here, I'd leave this place. In a heartbeat, Cas, I'd be back in that car. Taking care of business, like I've done since I was 10 years old. It's the only life I've ever really known, and I miss it like...I miss it like I'd miss my arm or my leg." He turned to Castiel. "And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you to be with me."

Cas smiled, eyes lighting up with a touch of humor. "Oh, really?"

"Sam and I are—fuck. We _were_ a mess of complications. Too much in each others' lives and unwilling to step out. We relied on each other, loved each other. He was my brother, my best friend, my partner, my family. And all the crap that comes with all of those labels, Sam and I—we had it. And it worked for us. Well, it worked until it didn't. But somehow, through all the shit that hunting is, we managed to always come back to each other."

Cas smiled. "There's a reason you two were always tied together in prophecy, you know."

Dean chuckled. "I guess so. But here's where shit changes. I made a deal, and my marker was called. I had to cash in my chips, so to speak. And it was over." He picked at the damp label, flicking shreds of white paper onto the floor. "Then you came along. You had all this _faith_...in me. In God. In your purpose. And I was just this shell. I couldn't...I didn't want to be who you thought I was. I didn't think I could be."

"I remember."

"But you were there. All the time. Every time I doubted myself, every time I wanted to just chuck it all and let the world rot, you'd pull me back from the edge." Dean caught Cas' eye. "I was crushed under the weight of your faith, Cas. I hated you more than a little for that."

"Yes."

Dean sent him a sad smile, shaking his head. "That's not true. I didn't hate you." Reaching a decision, he set his bottle down and walked over to Cas. Tilting his head, he let his eyes rove over Castiel's features. "To be honest, there was a part of me that...loved you, maybe. Not this vessel, but _you_ , though you picked a pretty decent one, Cas. Really, you did." He reached up to touch Cas' cheek but settled his hand on Cas' shoulder. "I used to dream about you. I didn't tell Sam because he'd give me hell about it. I think it was less about the body than it was about you. But yeah."

"I got used to so many things about this body, Dean. The hunger, the need for sleep, the aching exhaustion. Things I never knew in my real form. But I learned what the feelings were, what they meant. But this...tension and uneasiness defied definition. I had no...compass...no reference. I lost focus around you, couldn't concentrate."

"You wanted me."

"Did I?"

"If it's anything like what I felt, then, yeah." Dean pulled away. "Take a peek."

"Dean, that's not-"

"Look through the memories." He closed his eyes. "See if it's familiar."

After a moment, Dean felt a push at his mind, then a presence. "Cas," he whispered. Then the flickering of images, of feelings and memories, rushed through him. An exhilarating assault, over in second.

"Dean."

"See?" he asked, opening his eyes again. "Now you know."

Cas stared at him a moment, then sighed. "You're not coming are you?"

"Saw that, too, huh?"

"Yes. And I wonder why. It's obvious that hunting is a part of you. I don't understand why you won't come back to it."

Dean shook his head. "A larger part of me than I'm comfortable with wants to." Stepping back to the rail, he leaned against it and crossed arms. "I miss the life, Cas. I won't lie and say I don't. But I'm not going back. The life is for shit without Sam. I know, I lived it for a while. And now Sam's gone. We stopped the world from ending, kept your idiot family from tearing it apart and treating it like their own personal playground. And as much as leaving with you may appeal to the part of me that wants the road and the freedom, I've done my time. I have a happy life here, and responsibilities that I'm proud to have." He paused, considering. "Hunting cost me everything that made me who I was, and you alone are not enough to pull me away from what I've built here. So no. I'm done. Go find someone else."

Cas turned to the window, looked inside at Lisa sitting on the sofa. Dean stared over Cas' shoulder into the house, smiling a little when Lisa nodded at him.

"She's lucky," Cas whispered.

"I don't know about that."

Cas turned back t him. "You still don't understand."

"Explain it to me."

"Dean Winchester. There's no one like you. Even your brother, as good as he is, cannot hope to ever be your equal. I'm glad she has you, and you, her. But if you won't come back, then there's no place for me here."

"And again, you're giving me way too much credit, Cas. Too much credit, and too much responsibility. You can still do the job without me. I'm sure Bobby would welcome the company. But you can't make me your reason for being staying or going. That's too much to expect of me, and it's another reason I'm not going with you."

Cas smiled. "I only credit you with what you deserve, whether you believe it or not."

"I don't," Dean replied. "So. Are you staying?

Cas shook his head.

"Where will you go?"

Cas headed toward the stairs, his footsteps loud on the porch floor. "I think I'll take....a vacation.

"Might be a good idea," Dean said, nodding.

"It seems to be the thing to do. All the gods are doing it."

"Are we good?" Dean asked.

On the last step, Cas turned around. "That was never in question, Dean."

Dean nodded. "Good." He picked up his beer bottle and headed toward the front door. He opened it, stepping into the swath of light. "Take care, Cas," he said and stepped inside, closing the door behind him, leaving Castiel alone in the darkness.

"You, too, Dean."

*****

"So old man Woodham brought his car back into the shop," Dean said, setting the bowl of spaghetti on the table.

Ben looked up at him from his seat, fork full of lettuce halfway to his mouth. "Again? What's wrong with it now?"

Dean chuckled. "Nothing. He just wants me to tune her up tomorrow. You want to come help me? I'm gonna be taking the carburetor our and cleaning it up."

"Really?"

Dean ruffled his hair, then planted a kiss on the crown of his head. "Yeah. I started working on the Impala about your age. Dad said I needed to know how to fix her. Figure you should, too." He glanced back toward the kitchen. "That is if you don't mind?"

Lisa smiled and shook her head, carrying the pot of sauce to the table. "Nah. You have the cheese?"

"On it," Dean said, hurrying back to the kitchen. As he passed by, he snuck a kiss onto the back of her neck.

"Goof," she said, laughing and set the pot on the table before taking her seat.

As Dean came into the dining room, there was a knock on the door. "I'm up," he said, "I'll get it."

He trotted through the living room, and pulled open the door. "Dude, seriously. Interrupting dinner is a crime punishable by dea-" he stopped, as the world disintegrated around him. "Jesus."

"Not quite." Sam stood under the porch light, face serene, his body relaxed and easy. "Hey, Dean."

The End

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Written for deancastiel Secret Angels IV fic exchange.  
> 2\. Dean finds out that Chuck has started publishing again when he catches Lisa reading the latest novel. Realizing the stories are based on fact, she becomes curious about Dean's relationship with this 'Castiel' character and all the soulful looks they trade. Especially once Castiel starts showing up for dinner and she gets to see it first-hand.  
> 3\. I wanted to write a fairly fluffy, Dean/Castiel story, as per the prompt, with some flirty glances and some quiet, tearful understanding from Lisa. However, Dean's a tenacious bastard in the best of times, and he's a Rottweiler digging in his heels in the worst. So, my fluffy Dean/Castiel story turned serious. I did stick with elements of your prompt, and I hope you find enjoyment in that, at least, if you don't like the rest of the story.  
> 4\. To my beta reader, tyrical. Wow. So helpful. I tried to take all that you told me and make the necessary changes. I know the story is better for incorporating them. Thanks so much for your insights, comments, and suggestions.


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